Eamon Wood

A Note From the Author

Do you remember what you were thinking at 22? For some of you, that was a long time ago, and for some of you, that is the now.

At 22—which wasn’t that long ago—I had a thought. A big, daring, scary, life-changing thought. It was the kind of idea that would change me forever; shape my destiny, direct my life’s purpose, and redefine my perception of who I am, what I’m capable of, and what I want to do with my life.

I was going to travel the world . . . well, at least as much of Europe and the United States as I could. Not the fancy, four-star-hotel-and restaurant tours of everyone’s fantasies, the kind we see on TV, the kind that pops up in your feed and makes you stop and daydream. I was going to be roughing it, travelling from city to city with very little money, sleeping wherever I could lay my head, eating whenever I got the chance, and soaking in the marvels of some of the western world’s oldest and most culture-soaked cities. I was going to meet people, swop stories, and share points of view, so that we would both come away the richer after each encounter.

It was going to be just my backpack, my beard, my wheelchair, and me.

BUT FIRST, LET’S WIND BACK THE CLOCK A BIT. I’m ten years old, in my family’s house bus, which is just planted on a hillside in the middle of my native New Zealand bush. I’m looking at a cake with little love hearts around the edges. This is my earliest moment of total self-awareness. I became completely conscious of where I was, in the context of the vastness that stretched out around me: the New Zealand bush extending as far out as I could see, down into the valley, on and on to the hazy grey-blue mountains. Something had sparked in me as I made a wish to be able to walk again, just as I had wished every birthday for the last five years—a drive, a feeling of expansion of some kind that something was missing. For whatever reason, that was when I started to want more for myself. To become more.

Here I am . . . to tell a story. Not so much about my life, but more about an adventure—one of many that I have had over my short existence so far. . . a story of how at twenty-two I had a thought.

Prologue

Iona, Scotland

I COULD SEE THE SMALL ISLAND of Iona from when I got on the ferry, which cost just three pounds or something equally ridiculous. There only seemed to be two roads, so I wheeled down the one that looked more promising. It felt like this isle was as far from the other end of the earth as I could possibly go.

The lack of noise and the constant sound of the ocean breeze filled up my senses.

At the end of the road there was a sign which said Iona Hostel: Voted best eco-hostel in

Scotland. Well, firstly, I was surprised that there was a hostel at the end of the earth, and, secondly, I couldn’t see it. Was being invisible also good for the environment?

Turned out it was hidden behind and down a grassy hill. I went down and waved to a woman who was at the door. She explained she was a volunteer there and showed me around. I said thanks. The fee was just 20 pounds a night, which, in the grand scheme of things, wasn’t super expensive, but I had money on my mind.

I thought I’d just catch the ferry back to Mull and sleep in the car there instead, because Mull was nice too. As I made my way out of the entrance to the hostel, I noticed a gate leading to a grassy field. The ground was cushiony soft and the track ran through a mountainous field of what felt like total freedom—the sound of the ocean and the soft breeze looking out from this island left me feeling like I had it all to myself at the end of the earth. This is what I’d envisioned my dream of peace to be, even as far back as that life-changing day when I’d first seen the Durdle Door on TV. I just lay there, looking up and out. It was so peaceful . . . this was why I was travelling.

How could I not stay after that peaceful moment? I wheeled back down to the hostel and checked in. Then I wheeled down to the beach, parked up, jumped down onto the grass and spent the next hour or so watching the sunset, listening to the ocean and soaking it all in. Just being. After days of driving and taking ferries, here I was, wheeling around on this tiny isle of Iona! Everything was worth this moment.

Chapter 1

An Accidental Family . . . and a Family Accident

My mother, Kim, was a free spirit. She called herself Rosa, wore brightly coloured, flowing gypsy dresses, and believed in the power of crystals. She hugged everyone—when her mood was good.

She had me when she was just 19, after having conceived me during a one-night stand while on a visit to England. She never told me the name of my father.

As a child, I understood that she was an alcoholic, but for me it didn’t seem strange. She was who she was. At heart a sweet person; I just saw her as a bit crazy. When I was a few months old she began a relationship with the man who later became my stepfather, Geoff. They eventually had two more children: my brother, Malachy, and my sister, Faith.

Mum was impulsive, and her spontaneity sometimes had consequences. I remember one time she and Geoff were having an argument while we were all crammed into his van. She just opened the door and bailed, launching herself onto the tarmac that was speeding past under our wheels.

We didn’t feel unsafe; she was a good mom and gave us what we needed; food, clothes, schooling. But sometimes, the craziness got to be too much. Malachy, Faith and I once plotted to run away, but our ambitions were stillborn, as we realised we had nowhere to run to.

I was four and a half years old when I lost the use of my legs. Mum and I were heading home from an early morning party. It was daylight. I’ve no way of knowing whether she’d been drinking or not, but given what I grew to know about her, it was likely. She was just 24.

At some point during that drive, she fell asleep at the wheel. We were somewhere between Motueka and Nelson, alongside an inlet to the Tasman Sea. Lucky for me, the tide was out.

I was snugly belted in, with one of those across-the-lap seatbelts you don’t see around much anymore—with good reason. I felt warm and cosy, enjoying the fact that it was just the two of us; me and my mum.

I remember the feel of the car careening off the side of the road, down an embankment and onto stony ground. I remember standing up—how I got free of the seatbelt, I have no idea. Then I remember falling down.

I woke up some time later, surrounded by people who were all staring down at me. After that, it’s just a blur. Tools that had been lying idle in the back of the car had been launched at me, fortunately missing my head, but tearing into my shoulder. I still have the scars to prove it. My mother suffered a broken ankle.

My diagnosis wasn’t great. My lap belt had held only too well, causing traumatic injury to my spinal cord in the region of T12 L1. My spinal cord was stretched rather than severed, so I’m considered an incomplete paraplegic. I haven’t fully lost sensation and can still move my legs. From the knees down, however, there’s only a dull tingle, the kind you feel when you’ve been numbed up by the dentist. I have sensation and fairly good mobility, so I’m grateful for that.

Every year I go back to the spinal clinic where I was first treated, where I even see nurses who’d been there 26 years ago when I was first brought in. They run routine checks on my spinal injury, kidneys, and bladder. They reminisce about me at age four, wheeling myself up and down the halls on a skateboard during my months of recuperation. Calling to them to watch me go. Happy and laughing, a normal kid.

Mum never said anything about it to me, although I guess guilt must have added fuel to the fire of her alcoholism. But I’ve never held it against her, never said a bitter word. The idea that she was to blame . . . I let it go.